What Comes Around
by stripesthetiger11
Summary: I feel as though he has suffered more than me, despite the eighty-three scars that trail up and down my body. One-shot.


Waking up with eighty-three scars trailing along your body and a neck as stiff as a concrete slab never gets old.

First I would wake up from my usual nightmare, screaming is fear. I would sit there and pant; somewhat expecting my parents too rush in and come to my aid. Fortunately for them, they had grown used to my screams and could just sleep right through them. Shoving the blankets off me, I would swing my legs over the side of the bed, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. Then I would eye the scars that trailed along my arms and down my chest and stomach, seeming to end at the waistband of my shorts but still continuing to appear on my knees and slither down my scrawny legs. My hand would clasp onto the back of my neck, feeling the peeling skin from my largest scar. This scar ran down my neck and slid down my spine, ending at the start of the waist. I would hesitate for a moment or two, and then I would quickly twist my neck to the left. Despite the aching pain, my head would then twist to the right and then roll in a circle once. I would stretch my neck a few times before looking at the glowing red numbers from my bedside clock. Whether it was midnight, three in the morning, or even eleven at night, I wouldn't go back to sleep. I would stare out the window for hours at end, waiting until my parents awoke so that knew it was time to get ready for school.

That's what I've been doing for the past eight years. Every night seems worse than the last, but I still continue to go to sleep. But not tonight.

Tonight, I waited until I could hear the sound of m parent's snoring before flicking on the lights to my bedroom. I took a look at myself in the mirror, slightly surprised at what I saw. In the mirror was a boy around my age. The boy in the mirror had shaggy and unkempt light brown hair, large, purple bags under his dull gray eyes, twelve scars scattered along his face, and skin so pale it was almost the same color of toilet paper. The boy I was looking at touched the scars on his left cheek, sighing and looking at me with sad eyes. The boy turned around before twisting back and slamming his fist into the mirror. The mirror shattered, and the boy was gone.

I slid on a light blue shirt from the laundry basket and replaced my shorts with a pair of faded jeans. I shrugged on a black jacket, knowing it would be chilly out. I thought about pulling out the pieces of class that jutted out of my hand and cleaning up the blood that dribbled down my arm, but decided that I could just do it after I got back. I checked to see if my parents had awoken, but I had gotten lucky. They continued to snore, their sounds seemingly echoing through the entire house.

I trotted down the stairs and out the door, making sure to lock it tight. I took in a breath of deep air, enjoying the silence and the peace that hung around me. I walked along the sidewalk, hands buried in my pockets. Even though I had begun to count houses as I was walking, my mind was deep in thought. I was thinking about how there were no animals out making noises in the bushes or insects making their usual sounds. I was thinking about how empty the street out at night. I was thinking about how I had been outside for nearly an hour, but I had not spotted a single car passing by. At one point, I had found myself thinking about my scars, my stiff neck, and my bloodied hand that was torn from the once intact mirror. Now that all these questions had run through my head, I was starting to wonder why the wolves hadn't smelt the blood yet. This city had a forest that was overly populated with wolves. Speaking of the forest, what was that noise?

I stopped at the eighty-third house, turning around to face the forest that had somehow made its way behind me. It was always so dark and spooky looking, even in the day time. I had been in there once or twice, but never stayed longer than twenty minutes. But now I was contemplating whether to go in, for I had heard a noise. I sounded like a dying bear, coming out powerful yet weak at the same time. I wasn't one to care for animals, but after taking a look at my deeply scarred arms, I jogged into the forest.

I heard the groan once again, but more clearly this time. It couldn't be a wolf, and bears weren't that common around here, so it left me wondering what I would find. Following the noise, I heard it thrice more, each time sounding louder and clearer than the last. It was definitely not an animal, for whatever was making the noise was too loud and unlike any animal I've heard before. On the eighth growl, just when I thought it couldn't get any louder, I found him.

He was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Propped up against an old oak was a man almost as tall as the tree itself. Clad in a suit darker than night and a tie as red as blood, the man had two out of proportion, stick-like arms reaching toward a low branch and clutching it with hands larger than my head, trying to keep himself up. His head turned slowly to look at me, looking as if that action alone pained him. His face, or lack of face I should say, was a blank canvas. He had no mouth, eyes, ears, nose, or hair. His skin was whiter than fresh winter snow, and I could make out small indentions where his eyes should have been. His cheeks were deeply sunken in and I could make out a small bump for where his nose was. Despite the lack of features, I could tell he was weak and in pain. In fact, he might even die soon.

I will admit, I was scared and thought of running the minute I saw his pale face. But when he weakly let go of the branch and collapsed into the grass, I had second thoughts. He reached a large, clawed hand towards me, nearly touching my leg. I wanted to kick his hand away, but when I lifted my leg, I saw one scar that circled my ankle. I took a look at my scarred and bloodied hands before putting my foot down. I sank to my knees next to the tall man, lightly touching his back. The being looked like he wanted to yank back in disgust at the sudden and unexpected contact, but being too weak to even move, he just stared at me while trying to keep his head up. He then looked at my hand, or the blood that coated my hand, I should say.

I followed his gaze to my glass covered hand and gave him an uneasy look before beginning to pull out each shard of glass one by one. I watched as the area where his mouth once was start to rip like silk. Soon a large maw was what was left of the blank space. A slimy, sharp ended tongue the same color of blood slithered out of his mouth, reaching towards my hand. Once I had removed most of the glass I, reluctantly, reached my hand towards his waiting mouth. The being licked the some of the blood off of my palm, and before I knew it, my whole hand was in his mouth.

I let out a cry of shock as I felt him lapping up my life essence from my hand. I couldn't help but cringe when I felt my knuckles scrape sharp, needle like points that must have been teeth. But he never did bite. He just sucked and licked the blood from his hand. Just when I had started feeling faint, he yanked my hand out. I could barely move my fingers and my skin from my fingertips to my elbow had turned a deathly white. The being before me propped himself up with his hand before getting up to stand, but shaking slightly. He still seemed weak, but before I could make sound, he was gone.

I don't know where he went, but after sitting there, clutching my numb hand for about thirty minutes, I knew he wasn't coming back. With a slight wobble to my step, I was able to get myself to stand and walk out the forest and back home.

It's nearly midnight; three hours since I saw the strange man in the suit. I don't know if what I've done was good or bad, but I am satisfied. Now, as I move each of my fingers, trying to get the feeling back into them, I glance into the few shards of glass that still hang from its frame.

I see him.

He's standing in a corner right behind me, staring at the back of my head. He doesn't look so weak now, and his once sunken in cheeks were full again. He is still very thin, but he seems he was able to get all the energy he needed. I slowly turn to him, pondering over my fate before the larger, more powerful being.

The being take one, thin finger and presses it against my forehead. Immediately, I feel as if I am bathing in a tub of ice. Pain shoots throughout me, spreading from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I want to scream but I can't. I want to writhe in pain but I can't. I want to lie down and cry, but I can't.

The pain stops.

I want to cry in relief, but instead, I try to focus my blurred vision. The man is no longer there. I bring my hand up to my face to rub my temple, but I suddenly see something that makes me freeze. My hand is clean, no longer pale, and unscathed. I see no scars along my palm.

I rush to pick up a large mirror shard and gasp. My face in untouched. There are not scars trailing along my face and down my neck. Speaking of which, my neck no longer feels stiff. I twist my head once or twice, loving the lack of pain. I touch my face, and I smile for the first time in eight years.

I rush to my window, hoping to see the man who had freed me. At first, I nearly mistake him for a tree. The man stood in front of a tree fifty yards away under a streetlamp, not leaning on it, but blending in. He turned his faceless head towards me, and if he had eyes, they would have locked in with mine. We both know what this means. I want to shout out praises, but instead, I just stare out at him, and he stares back.

The man nods to me once, and with a flicker of light, the man is gone.


End file.
